


Dress'd in all his trim

by Petra



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: LARPing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-08
Updated: 2009-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoffrey got roaring drunk one night at university and told Darren he wouldn't fuck him even if he were Shakespeare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress'd in all his trim

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/belmanoir/profile)[**belmanoir**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/belmanoir/), who provided both inspiration and encouragement for this, as documented in the ETA on [this post](http://petra.dreamwidth.org/382677.html). Thanks to Sage &amp; Sionnain for prereading.

There was a knock on the door of the prop closet and Geoffrey jerked awake. "Who is it?" he asked warily. The props department had taken to sneaking in while he was asleep to get whatever they needed without bothering to get his attention first; he'd changed in the bathroom for the last week.

Richard knocked. Ellen might conceivably knock, if she were talking to him.

"Good fucking God, you really are in there," Darren said, and opened the door wide. "I thought it was a mass hallucination brought on by excessive hero worship, blinding the groundlings to anything but the sheer legend of your lunacy." He hit the light switch and Geoffrey blinked irritably at him.

"What the hell are you doing here at--" he squinted at his watch "--three in the morning?"

"A spot of insomnia exacerbated by insatiable curiosity." Darren closed the door and walked over to the couch, his arms folded. "Aren't you a picture."

Geoffrey groaned and covered his face with his hands. "All I'm missing is the caption: 'Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be actors!' and they could use me in one of those miserable ads."

"Oh Lord," Oliver said. "Don't suggest that to them. They'd probably do it."

"Probably," Geoffrey agreed.

Darren patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "There, there. They still worship the ground you rave on, darling."

Geoffrey looked up at him, scowling. He hadn't been sleeping well, and it didn't improve his mood to be interrupted. "You know, Darren, you could fuck off now. You've got the answer to your question."

Looking up at him also meant taking in the various elements of what he would probably refer to as his outfit: a red scarf with fringing that would make a flapper look extravagant, a patent leather jacket, black velvet pants, and--

"Oh my God," Geoffrey said, and moved to sit up.

"What?" Oliver asked. "You know, I could find you a sword. I'm still sorry I missed that duel. You could injure him properly this time and force them to find someone else."

Darren coughed and spread his hands. "I, ah."

The green doublet he wore under the jacket had started life, many years before, as a costume for a generic extra. It wasn't a particularly good color on him, it wasn't an especially nice fabric, it wasn't even a remarkably flattering cut. The only thing that made it noteworthy was its history.

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows at Darren and leaned back against the couch. "I remember the day you stole that," he said.

Darren tugged at it gently. "So they didn't actually lobotomize you effectively. That's good to know."

"No. They'd probably have had a field day getting rid of those parts if they could." Geoffrey took a deep breath and patted the couch next to him. "I haven't practiced in years, well, apart from--" he shrugged.

"What the hell are you on about now?" Oliver asked. "It's the middle of the night. Send him off already."

Darren sat down, very nearly far enough away to pass as casual. "Neither have I." He untied the scarf and set it aside, then gave Geoffrey a sidelong look. "Ho there, my fine young lad; wouldst join my company of actors?"

There was quite a long period in which that phrase had made Geoffrey shiver all on its own, with the promise it held. "No," he said, making it light, and then, "Fuck."

"No?" Darren sighed and shook his head sadly. "I have traveled the length and breadth of this land, and found nary a soul so fair of face and fleet of tongue as thee. Art certain?"

Oliver snorted. "He's finally cracked."

"Stop it," Geoffrey said to both of them, though he gave Darren a weak and fading smile as he said it. "It was a good thought, but--Jesus, look at me."

"I have been." Darren straightened somewhat, losing the Early Modern. "You look like hell. I thought--" he fingered the edge of the doublet "--I might be able to cheer you up."

"And get laid," Geoffrey said, flatly.

"What depths have you been sinking to?" Oliver asked irritably.

Darren smiled crookedly. "And that."

Geoffrey sighed and told the nostalgic parts of his brain to fuck off. "Maybe--something a little different. I mean--"

Darren put a hand on his knee and gave him a disturbingly searching look. "You must be sick if you're tired of Will."

"You're going to explain this later," Oliver said, and then he mercifully shut the fuck up.

The green doublet was one of the two relics from an old game, begun when Geoffrey had got roaring drunk one night at university and told Darren he wouldn't fuck him even if he were Shakespeare. Darren, who had been matching him pint for pint, had attempted to one-up him by saying he wouldn't fuck Geoffrey even if he were Marlowe.

They'd snuck into the costume storage that night, thanks to a key Darren had copied from someone else's seventh-hand copy, and made off with two vaguely period doublets. Then they'd staggered back to Geoffrey's room and had one hell of a night-and-some-of-the-morning, cursing and complimenting each other in ad libbed Early Modern, quoting as little as they could manage and still accomplish the task of establishing who was who.

When they'd finally woken up, it had been a blessing that the costume department could only afford cotton. They hadn't talked about it for half an hour until they caught each other's eyes and laughed until they were leaning on each other, weeping with laughter. That led directly to making out and somewhat more coherent mumbles, making liberal use of thou forms.

That night, with considerably less alcohol, they tried it again and ended up arguing over the appropriate conjugation of "lie" until Geoffrey shoved Darren onto the bed and pointed out that if Darren were Shakespeare--which he might have been trying to be, but wasn't succeeding at--he wouldn't care that much and would just use whatever scanned.

After that, it got easier and became something of a habit.

"I'm not tired of Will," Geoffrey said, trying not to dredge up the many sweetly filthy memories that Darren was trying to remind him of, and failing. "But there's no way in hell he'd hire me, not like this. Not to act."

"Oh, I don't know." Darren nudged him with his shoulder. "You haven't tried lately."

"Don't," Geoffrey said softly, expecting nothing but more pushing.

Darren sighed and leaned away from him. "You're too fucking old for Kit, you know."

"So are you." Geoffrey folded his arms. He wasn't sure whether it was more of a relief that Darren was backing off or frustrating in every sense.

Darren laughed and patted his leg. "As if you'd ever settle for Marlowe when you could convince me to do Will."

Geoffrey took his hand and laced their fingers together. He hadn't kept a tally of which way things had gone, then, but Darren was probably right for once. "Who would, really?"

"Traditionalist." Darren gave him another sideways look, obviously flirting. "We could work out another script, something less--"

"No," Geoffrey said quickly, hoping to forestall both Darren's words and the spike of hope and lust they made him feel. He looked away when Darren winced. "I'm, it was wonderful while it lasted, but no."

Darren sniffed. "You still have your doublet, too, unless they took it away from you in jail."

"I'm sorry." Geoffrey tried to pull his hand free, but Darren wouldn't let him go.

"Do you know--do you have any fucking idea how hard it was not to drag you down on Ellen's hideous couch and say all the poorly-cadenced things we said then, with their limping syntax?" Darren glared at him. "I was so glad to get out of this town, especially with the way she kept looking at you."

"It was a low blow," Geoffrey admitted.

Darren sniffed. "Below the belt, yes." He was quiet for a moment. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here."

There were many possible levels to that statement. "Well. You certainly look like you were intending to either seduce me or fuck with my head. And you're in town to put on _Romeo and Juliet_, you poor bastard. And in Canada because if I recall your contract correctly, you're getting paid pretty damn well."

"For which I thank you, honestly, but that's not what I meant." Darren kissed his cheek. "I meant tonight. And yes, I'd love to fuck with your head--not that it needs it--or the rest of you."

There was nothing in Darren's words that was even vaguely surprising, which didn't explain why Geoffrey could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. "All I have in here is a really narrow couch." He meant it as a polite rejection, but Darren was never good at accepting either politeness or rejections.

"Bullshit," Darren said, and got up, then turned to give Geoffrey a hand up. "There have to be beds in here somewhere."

"Without sheets." Geoffrey stood, found himself close enough to Darren that he could smell the strange plastic odor of his jacket, and frowned. "There might be a mattress or two somewhere, but I wouldn't know where to start."

Darren scowled at him. "Hast lost all thy manhood in the years since I knew thee last? 'Twould be a kinder fate to clad thee in skirts as Juliet than heed thy mewling excuses."

Geoffrey ran a hand through his hair and gave up on getting his point across. "An thou seek'st to do so, thou wilt find the way barred most sturdily."

It didn't make him feel better when Darren smiled fiercely at him. There was no reason it should, except for the twist in his stomach that was somewhere between stage fright and animal spirits. "And did I so seek, wouldst thou scream of the sanctity of thy maidenhood?"

"Oh--zounds." Geoffrey snorted. "Scream for a thing I never had, lost to thine own sweet self in spirit? Not for that, nay, but for the hope of mine own privacy I would shout and roar."

Darren was close enough to kiss him, but didn't. "But let me in thy private places, and there will be far better things to shout on."

"Thou hast not plied me with half enough ale for such speech," Geoffrey protested, laughing at both of them until Darren kissed him, firmly and possessively, with one hand tangling in Geoffrey's hair. "Nor," he added when he broke the kiss to take a breath, "for such forwardness as this."

"Is thy virtue so easily bought as that?"

Geoffrey kissed him lightly, backing away when Darren tried to deepen it. "My virtues, as thou well know'st, are faded all to a dun hue and withered like the leaves of autumn. I pray thee, tease me not with hopes I may not have and heights I can no longer scale."

Darren made a frustrated sound and embraced him. "My heights are none so tall that they might prohibit thee."

Geoffrey buried his face in Darren's shoulder until he could control the urge to laugh in his face. It was enough to say, "I have such recollections, aye," and make Darren roll his eyes.

"But not so shallow that they cannot move thee, an thou wouldst permit it."

"I--" Geoffrey faltered, thinking of Ellen. "My heart is pledged elsewhere."

Darren let him go and gave him a scornful look. "Thou hast plighted thy troth to the breeze, and mayst call after it with sweetest words and honeyed tongue, but it shall blow on without thee."

Geoffrey caught at his shoulders. "And what manner of thing art thou, if she is naught but a breeze? Thou shalt fly with the autumn, to what strange lands I know not, and think no more of me than as a passing fancy. Art thou a bird, then, or some grosser thing? A fly, to buzz in my ear and demand all my thoughts, then disappear?"

"The power to stay me lies in thy hands," Darren said, and turned his head to kiss Geoffrey's fingers. "I am in need of a patron, and this is thy city."

"Oh, God." Geoffrey let him go and stared at him, caught somewhere between arousal and utter incredulity. "I'm not discussing next season with you in anything but modern English." There were promises he couldn't make alone, and worse, promises he wanted to, ludicrous dialogue and all. There were plays and plays, and they all needed a director. Geoffrey could hardly propose hiring Darren after the arguments they'd had in public without staging some great reconciliation.

Darren shook his head, looking wry. "Wouldst spurn me so, when I speak only of things that might be, not what must be?"

It took a breath to get the rhythm back. "Wouldst use me so, when thou well know'st my thoughts are clouded with thy remembered likeness and that I fairly burn for thee?" Geoffrey bit his lip, bracing himself for some sort of mockery, but Darren only raised his eyebrows. "Hast forgot how weak I am, then, in all my struggles to deny thee aught?"

"For all my sins, that is no weakness of thine." Darren kissed him again; there was forgiveness in the care he took, both for breaking character and for the slights Geoffrey had given him.

"'Tis not a mortal weakness, but with the passing moments, my better angels flee and my humors fade, and it may yet become one."

"All thy humors?" Darren stroked him through his pants and Geoffrey took a deep breath. "Of all the lies hast spoken, I am best disposed to forgive this last," he said in Geoffrey's ear. "Thou fadest like the sun at dawn."

Geoffrey shivered and tried to stand firmly, though his knees shook. "Mayhap," he said, and let that be enough until he could make the next sentence. "My bed is narrow, but I would fain share it with thee."

"And I with thee."

It wasn't as easy as that, not with the couch the width it was and Darren's godforsaken pants tangled around his ankles for the first five minutes, but it was easier than anything had any right to be between them. "O, by all the saints, thy mouth--" was easy to say; they'd had enough practice, once, to say any number of things.

"Ah, damn me to the deepest hell," Geoffrey said when he couldn't bear it any longer.

"Never," Darren said, and held him through it, as though that would be enough to exorcise them both.

It wasn't, though it helped a great deal that Darren shook when Geoffrey kissed him, a few minutes later, and that he lost or forsook all his normal vocabulary in favor of "Please."

Afterward, things were more awkward, but that was normal. "So," Geoffrey said, and Darren sighed and sat up, leaving him suddenly cold.

"I suppose the more conventional members of the theater staff would find it fascinating, not to say risible, if I were to emerge from this--let's face it, darling--hellhole with you in the morning."

"Probably. No--definitely." Geoffrey caught Darren's hand and kissed the back lightly. "And they might even have a point."

Darren sniffed. "Fuck their points. I'd stay, but we'd fall off your fucking couch. Why don't you have a bed?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "I never intended to stay this long, and I don't get a lot of company."

"Thou hast not had many visitors," Darren corrected him, ruining the arch delivery by fumbling around for something to wipe his hands on before he rearranged his clothing. "And should I come again, wouldst turn me away?"

"Shouldst come again so soon, I would wonder indeed."

Darren smiled at him, the expression softened by satiety into something approaching happiness. "And should I call on thee?"

There were so many things that could go wrong, so many incredibly tasteless jokes waiting to be made. They'd never pulled their punches with each other. "I know not."

"Perchance I shall, then, and wait on thy decision when the moment is upon thee." Darren found a rag and wiped his hands with every appearance of fastidiousness.

"If you do, do me a favor?"

Darren's smile faded. "What?"

Geoffrey got up, feeling the aftereffects of good sex and too many nights on a rickety couch. "Don't wear this damned thing," he said, and brushed the green doublet with the back of his fingers.

"I hoped it would distract you from the quotidian round of sorrows."

"I know, I know." Geoffrey kissed his cheek. "I don't want your Will anymore, that's all."

Darren held his breath for long enough that it was noticeable. "Don't you?"

There were too many things tangled in the question: history, nostalgia, sex, and the lingering pain of humiliation. "Not yet," Geoffrey said, trying to keep his voice light and failing. "Not until I'm worthy of him."

He knew it was the wrong thing to say when he said it; there were a thousand cruel things Darren could use against him, and he'd left himself vulnerable in the worst way.

Darren kissed him instead, holding him for a few breaths afterward. "You always have been," he said, and let Geoffrey go.

Geoffrey was still laughing when the door closed behind him, though he didn't know by then whether it was from relief or disbelief.


End file.
